


Forza

by SkiesOverTokyo



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Car Racing, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternative Universe-Formula 1, F/F, Formula One, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Multi, On Hiatus, POV Armin Arlert, POV Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin), Technobabble, Titans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 03:13:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6782992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkiesOverTokyo/pseuds/SkiesOverTokyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Attack On Titan Motor-racing AU<br/>(Eventual Ereri, Hinted Mikeri, Various other Parings as this thing evolves. )<br/>Set in the fast and dangerous world of Mid-1990s Formula 1, this pits the seasoned hero of Sondaggio Squadra, (Team Survey), Levi Ackerman, and headstrong rookie Eren Jaeger against the shadowy Titan Renn (Titan Racing) across a “Season like no other.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pre-Season

They call it “The Green Hell”, but I have always found it beautiful; nestled high in the mountains, it’s one of the crowning jewels of motorsport, and the emerald at its highest, most beautifully wrought point is the _Fuchsröhre_ , the Foxhole _,_ a twisting charge through woodlined bends, a true test of any driver, let alone one driving a half tonne of machine at over two hundred miles an hour.  Usually I would pass through it in seconds, a blur of green.   
Not today.

  
Today, with the scent of burning rubber and plastic and motorfuel filling your lungs, I am running, as fast as you possibly can, the last hundred metres,  grass giving way to asphalt, to the  tip of the sharp, almost knife-like _Bergwerk_. Behind me, perhaps a hundred yards now, slewed over to the side of the track, front axle twisted up so badly that the front tire practically points towards the cloudless blue sky, my own car lies, front wing smashed almost in half by impact, the blue and white paintwork scarred by impact. The last few seconds are a blur of crunching metal, screaming tyres, and you’re half-giddy from the sudden impact.  
I feel like you’ve been shaken like a fucking martini full of metal and petrol and scorched rubber  
As for the other driver, the one who was caught in the middle, fragments of his all-black machine strewn across your path, I neither know nor care.  
I’ve thrown your helmet off, god knows where it’s landed.  
My body hurts.  
My lungs burn.  
But I have to get there, do something.  
Something screeches past me, metres away, and I realise that someone doesn’t realise, someone doesn’t see what’s happened.   
I’ve seen cars crash before, fire lick across red or black or white bodywork, people dragged, burnt but alive, live to race again.  
 _Mike might still be alive_.  
I remember his grin after qualifying, a broad, warm smile.  
A smile that says  
“We’ve got this, Levi. For sure.”  
I want, I _need_  to see that smile again.  
Even if Mike never races again, even if that smile is from a burnt or wounded man.  
I just want to see him alive again.  
  
I reach the end of the turn, cross onto the run-off, and before me, like some broken insect, like some poor creature some savage child has taken a magnifying glass to-  
it burns.  
The fire has almost consumed the middle of the car, plumes of rolling thick black smoke coiling around it, deep, dark red beneath. The blue is gone, and above you the smoke blocks out the blue sky.   
I pull the mask around your face off, cover my mouth with it.  
The flames are scorching hot, (don’t think I ever felt anything this hot before) and stagger closer, ignoring the pain in your chest and the sharp ache across my body.  
He might-  
He could-  
I am perhaps twenty feet from the car when I smell it.  
It takes a few seconds for me to realise, with a jolt of horror, exactly what the smell is.  
It’s a smell that never really get out of clothing from that race, a smell that haunts for months after.  
It’s the smell of death incarnate.   
Desperation grabs hold and I take another pained step forward.

He has a chance to-  
Dimly aware of people behind me, dimly aware that choking black smoke and the smell of burning plastic are filling my lungs, dimly aware that by now, a red flag flutters above bright yellow hoardings advertising cigarettes film and alcohol.  
Dimly aware that Mike is dead.  
Another step.   
A burst of a fire extinguisher beside you, a spray of foam.  
Pitiful and too late.  
No. There’s still a chance.  
Still a chance.  
Still.  
Reach out.  
Mere metres away, and a figure.  
A figure, slumped, like a sick parody of some bonfire effigy.   
The dark green helmet is blackened, everything is blackened.   
Pain everywhere, lungs are screaming for oxygen, for anything that’s not the choking acrid smoke. I feel dizzy, but some mad desperation pushes me on, until an arm, clad in protective gear, stops me, as more extinguishers fight an already lost battle.   
I fight for a few seconds,  body burning through the last of your oxygen, and then go limp in surrender, half fall, half sink. Arms carry me perhaps a few metres away.  
Grass.  
“I’m sorry”, I hear someone say.  
A voice asks if I’m ok, and I nod , leaden. The smell still clings to the wind, but I gulp in air, no longer caring, then shakily get to my feet, almost robotically putting one foot in front of the other, pushing past obstacles that ask if I need or want to see a doctor. Someone forces a bottle of water gently into your hand and i take it, refusing to turn around, refusing to acknowledge that Mike is dead, refusing to think it.  
I run away to hide from myself.  
  
Hanji finds me there, a few minutes later-or a few hours-time doesn’t seem to flow right for weeks afterwards, curled up on the side of the track, body pressed against the barrier, almost foetal. A few metres away, on both sides of the barrier, concerned faces, _Sondaggio Squadra_ flags drooping in the cool July afternoon, the blue and white already feeling like it’s at half-mast. Marshals this side of the fence, keeping silent vigil.   
By now, there are wet tracks through the grime on my face, short cropped black hair wet and slicked in places to my scalp. The car, buckled and broken and scarred like someone has picked up all five metres of it and smashed it into the asphalt a few times, lies some twenty metres back, looking like I feel.  
“I’m sorry”, she manages to say. It’s all she can say.  
With one final wrenching agony, that hurts more than anything else that day, I realise that Mike is dead.  
  
The rest of the day passes in a blur. I’m being asked questions; did you see what happened? Did you do everything you could to avoid the accident? Did the driver from the other team do anything you would regard as having been illegal? Did you yourself do anything illegal or dangerous? Did Mr Zacharius do anything dangerous? Did Mr Zacharius himself do everything he could to avoid the accident?  
Are you ok?  
Do you want to go home?  
  
I find the other driver, the big American man from Titan Renn, and it’s all you I do to not punch him. The bastard doesn’t even remove his hideous helmet, a leering, monstrous mask like some skin-stripped human. Behind him, the other man, Braun, watches, equally rude, equally grotesque in his headgear choices. Between them, their team principle pours false sympathy, her smile cold and fake. They win the race through Hoover.  
They didn’t stop, they didn’t care.  
  
More questions follow in the coming days:  
Did you know Mr Zacharius well?  
Were you friends?  
Will you continue racing?   
Did you know Mr Zacharius was dead before you reached him?  
Do you blame yourself for the accident?  
  
I find myself wandering, almost trancelike, feet carrying me, into the garage where they keep the mangled remains, a large Italian flag behind it, find myself staring at the burnt nose where the _Ali della libertà_ , the Wings of Freedom were once emblazoned.   
It becomes…somewhat of a relic for the entire team, but myself in particular, a second gravestone to match the one in rural Padua , and Hanji finds me occasionally dozing on the floor in front of it, or else staring at it as though it’s some modern art piece that I’m on the verge of understanding.  
My dreams become ones of fire and metal and screaming.  
I never reach him, aflame and blackened limbs stretched out to grab, to claw.  
And yet, I race.  
And yet I climb back into that blue and white machine, touch the wings on my race suit.   
I race because I feel I must. And every victory, hard won, of that season, I dedicate, more often than not choking back tears to my fallen colleague.  
My fallen comrade.  
My fallen friend.  
My-

And I dream of him, the month after the final race, seventeen days after I come second in the World Championship.  
I dream I make the final few feet.  
He reaches out a burnt, but still whole hand.  
Grabs my wrist.  
And I pull him from the wreckage.  
  
And then I wake.  
  


-

  
Levi Ackerman woke, hand raised into the air, and slowly let it fall, let himself wipe away the tears from under dark-ringed eyes.  
He checked the clock.   
6:21 AM.  
He reached out, flicked the snooze button with one hand, let Senna, the heavy, overly spoilt cat that shared the run of the country house with him, shift on white sheets to a place he wouldn’t be disturbed.  Early morning radio.  
He relaxed into the pillows.  
 _That dream again_.

The phone broke the silence, somewhere in the kitchen, and Levi grumbled softly, getting out of bed, earning a disgusted sort of sound from Senna.  
He answered the phone, flicking on the kettle as he did so.  
“Moooorning, Levi. Sorry to ring so early.”  
Hanji. The chief mechanic and technical officer of _Sondaggio Squadra._ A complete mad bloody genius who seemed more at home arms deep in an F1 engine than any man Levi had ever known.   
“Mmh.”  
He made himself coffee, as Hanji talked excitedly about engine design, gear-box ratios, design. Anything and everything to give them that little edge over Titan Renn. Hanji had taken Mike’s loss as bad as Levi, but had taken it more as a challenge, determined to make the car safer as well as more powerful. More awake, he suggested a few things, curled on the bar stool in the kitchen.  
“Oh! I totally forgot! Sorry! Erwin’s been in talks with various motor-racing teams to find your team-mate for next season. We think we’ve narrowed the list down to two.”  
That jolted him back to reality.  
“Sorry. I should have started with that, but you know what I’m like with…technical stuff. I’m…sorry. You’re probably…you probably need time.”  
“It’s fine.”  
He took a sip of coffee, black, and leant back.  
“Who is Erwin thinking, then?”  
“Well…”  
A pause, as she no doubt consulted a piece of paper.  
“The first contender is Eld Jinn. Korean. Originally from rallying and touring cars. A little long in the tooth, I mean, the guy’s in his late 30s, but he’s solid. He drove for…do you remember Skies Racing?”  
He did; the expensive plaything for some newly minted Russian oligarch. They hadn’t finished a race, and had spent less than a season in existence, but with what little Jinn had had, he’d showed potential.  He knew the name vaguely.  
“He’s currently third in the WRC, and that doesn’t end till December. It’s a tad tight, but he’s agreed to try outs.”  
Levi nodded.   
“For my part, Hanji, I think he’s decent, at least as a No.2 driver. Whether he’s going to be enough…I couldn’t say till he’s in the car. The thing that concerns me is that he’s tight for time and that he’s already…”  
He took a swig of coffee, placed the empty cup back on the workservice.  
“He’s already got commitments. I’ve raced with and against touring car and rally guys before and three months isn’t enough to re-learn how to drive a car for someone of that age. At best, he’s a seat-warmer for this season. Who’s the other guy?”  
“A German kid. Eren Jaeger.”  
“Never heard of him.”  
“He currently drives for _Rennstall Maria_. Formula 3000. He’s…good. World champion good. Won twelve out of twenty races”  
Levi whistled. Even for a less complex car, that took some doing.  
“Well, that seems a total no-brainer, Hanji. This kid seems perfect.”  
“Ah.”  
Levi didn’t particularly like that “Ah.”  
“…don’t tell me, there’s a catch.”  
“Well…on-track, apart from his hot-headedness, he’s fine. But that’s in a less dangerous class. He’s…a little headstrong, a little too fond of making risky decisions, a total adrenaline junkie at points. He _did_ win the Championship, but by the skin of his teeth. One more stupid crash and he’dve been beaten. He either wins or he doesn’t score at all. All or nothing. And we’re not talking a little scrape. He destroyed the car at Silverstone. Parked it into a wall at a hundred miles an hour, took all four tyres out on the gravel. He’s gifted, but dangerous. His chief mechanic has been literally tearing his hair out, poor kid. Since we supply their engines, I’ve had the poor kid calling me up half the season. Erwin’s basically put him on the list because he has the potential, but he’s maybe angling for Jinn.”  
“I want to see both of them, then.”  
“You’re sure? I thought…you’d prefer someone a little more risk-adverse.”  
He adjusted the phone, switched the kettle back on.  
“I think…Mike would prefer someone who fought tooth and nail for every corner than someone who just makes up the numbers.”  
“Ok. I’ll suggest that to Erwin. Are you likely to be able to make it to Imola at that point? Obviously, we want you track-side so we can have your input. After all, uh…”  
It sounded like she wanted to say something along the lines of _you’re important to this team,_ but seemed unable to articulate it. He broke the momentarily silence  
“Sure. Let me know when you’re doing it. If you’ve got any tape, or if he’s racing in the UK, let me know regarding Jinn”.  
“Absolutely. And…Levi.”  
“Yeah?”  
Another long pause  
“It wasn’t your fault. Mike wouldn’t blame you. It was an accident”  
Another long, and now uncomfortable pause, before she continued, her voice trying hard not to crack.  
“…You tried your best. This season, we’ll make him proud.”  
Levi nodded.  
“Ok. See you at Imola. Thanks, Hanji.”  
“Bye, Levi. Take it easy.”  
“Sure.”  
He put the phone down, reached down, petted Senna who by now was mewling softly for his breakfast, and stared out of the kitchen window.  
 __  
Jaeger, eh?  
  
He’d heard the name a few times, though in relation to an older man, a dour, glasses wearing German. He’d retired years before Levi had ever raced in a long-defunct junior team, now holding some Health and Safety role in the FIA. He remembered him now, from the enquiries after Mike’s death. Meticulous in the legal and medical aspects in the case, he’d interviewed most of the team multiple times, had the three cars involved examined from almost every single angle, left no stone unturned. It was him, after Levi himself, who had come in for what little praise the press had during the whole thing.   
He’d grown sick of reporters at his door, retreated to his parents’ estate in Scotland after the accident, and again at the end of the season.  
He’d also grown sick of the gushing, then conspiratorial, then reflective headlines as the story had sunk from the backpage to just after the crossword:

  
“Heroic Ackerman’s Vain Rescue of Zacharius”  
“Ackerman dedicates Suzuka Win to Friend’s Memory”  
“Why did Hoover not Stop? Times Sport Exclusive Suggests Alterior Motive”  
““Titan Renn Should Be Disqualified” FIA Head Fritz claims.”  
“Undeserved Championship? Inside the grimmest day in F1 History.”  
Jaeger had essentially vindicated _Sondaggio Squadra_ , his findings essentially boiling down to   
“A freak accident, which could not have been avoided: All precautions were taken by all _Sondaggio Squadra_ team members, from manufacturing, pit crew, FIA Marshalls, up to and including Mr Ackerman, Ms Zoe, and Mr Smith, and Mr Zacharius himself.”  
It seemed strange, thus, that such a level and precise person, someone who doubtless lived, breathed and spoke motor-racing safety had such a dangerous and foolhardy son. But then again, perhaps it was a deliberate action by this Eren kid-to deliberately fly in the opposite direction to his parents.   
He finished the second cup of coffee, fed Senna and made breakfast, listening to some reporter talk about women in industry. A smirk played across his face as Hanji’s familiar voice talked about engineering and attracting more girls to be interested in the subject, the grin widening as she calmly slapped down some half-assed question about _Sondaggio_ being out of their depth, and another about FIA safety.   
Well.  
 _Bring on Imola._

-

  
Armin Artlet isn’t sure what’s more frightening; the fact that the Nissan 300ZX he’s in has to be doing over a hundred and fifty kilometres an hour on the autobahn or the fact that Eren is casually singing (if one can ever call what he does “singing”) along to the hard rock song on the radio (a song, not speaking German, that Armin can barely understand) whilst occasionally grinning across at him in a _everything is fine, no need to be scared_ sort of way.  
Armin isn’t scared.  
He is fucking _terrified._  
Watching Eren bomb round a circuit at this sort of speed is already nerve-wracking. Being actually _in_ the car with him is perhaps the worst automobile-related experience of his life. Not that he doesn’t trust Eren with his life, it’s merely the pure fucking power of the car-it’s like being fucking strapped to the front of a fucking Saturn V rocket on fucking takeoff. He prays to whatever saint is in charge (poor bugger) of drivers and cars (he figures that it’s probably Saint Christopher), that Mikasa never finds out this happened. He swears again under his breath, and turns to Eren, trying to force the words out without sounding like he’s about to die.  
“Eren…um…can…you please…”  
“Ja?”  
“Can…you please…slow down?”  
“Ja. One sec. We’re almost there anyway.”  
“Slow. Down. Please?”  
“Aber…”  
“No fucking buts, Eren. Slow the fucking fuck down. You _fucking_ know I am _not fucking good_ with travel at the best of fucking times.”  
He realises he’s visibly shaking, with anger or fear or both.  
“I will….I’ll fucking tell Mikasa you drove fucking dangerously and fucking didn’t listen to me when I was fucking scared. She fucking said this be-fucking-fore. You don’t fucking think about others”  
That does the trick.  
“Fine, fine.”  
He slows the car down to a more tolerable eighty, and something in Armin’s chest lifts, and he relaxes back into his seat.  
“Thank you, Eren. I’m…sorry I swore so much.”  
The German nods  
“Look, I can…appreciate you’re excited for the new season, and I can appreciate you like your new car a lot, and that you’re very interested to test out its performance, but…not whilst I’m in it, please? I…worry. Needlessly. But please, for me?”  
Another nod.  
“Thank you.”  
  
The rest of the journey is uneventful, and Eren quickly returns to his normal self, occasionally cracking jokes, or singing along tunelessly to the radio. They pull into the small industrial estate   
_Rennstall Maria_ own, and park up. Eren gets out of the car and freezes, and for a few seconds Armin isn’t sure why. He follows Eren’s gaze, and…  
Oh.  
Mikasa Jaeger stands there, arms folded, her familiar black windcheater, emblazoned with the crossed swords of _Maria,_ flapping around her. A mug, obviously emptied from waiting for them both to arrive, is in her hand and there’s a slight twitch in her half smile that suggests Eren is in trouble.  
Besides her, an unfamiliar figure, hair-tyed back, old-style motoring goggles in dark brownish hair, her battered looking leather jacket sporting a very familiar logo.  
The crossed, blue-and-white stylised wings logo of five-time winner of the Constructers Championship, with eighteen FIA World Championship titles over a forty year illustrious history stretching back to the late 1950s.   
The wings of freedom that he knows emblazoned at least half of a younger Eren Jaeger’s wardrobe, hangs, in flag form on his wall, even now hangs from his car-keys.  
The wings of speed, of power, of endless ambition.  
The _Ali della libertà._  
The logo of _Sondaggio Squadra.  
_  
Hange Zoe stretches out a hand, which, after some nudging from Mikasa, Eren shakes. He’s still not quite mastered the whole meeting heroes thing.  
“Good morning, Mr Jaeger. And hello again, Mr Arlet. I believe this is the first time we actually meet in person, though? Still, a pleasure.”  
Armin blushes, and takes her hand, noting the callouses, the scars, the general roughness of her hand, and feels, with the softness of his own hands, even more embarrassed.  
“T-Thank you, Ms Zoe. I-it’s an honour to meet you at last. Truly. You’re…a personal hero of mine. S-sorry…”  
She grins widely, ruffles his hair.  
“It’s fine, Armin. Call me Hanji. After all…we might be colleagues soon.”  
Armin feels his face flush, hot, and he can barely stammer out a reply.  
Him, a lowly mechanic at some little backwater team, rubbing shoulders and working alongside the undisputed Queen of motor-design? Him, barely twenty-three years old, suddenly under the direct orders of one of the greatest minds in motorsport.   
He feels even more frightened than he did back in the car.  
Eren turns, behind him, practically spins on the spot and walks over to Hanji, Mikasa silently shadowing him, her face set in a half frown. It’s surprising how little she’s reacting and Armin wonders how much of this Zoe has already told her.  
“C-colleagues? M-Miss Z-Hanji, you can’t take my chief engineer. I need him. He’s my…I need him. Please.”  
The grin widens.  
“Well, Mr Jaeger, I have a little proposition for you. Or rather, I’m here, on behalf of _Sondaggio,_ to offer you a trial”.  
She smiles, noting Eren’s stunned reaction. Armin has never actually, even after his Championship-winning podium, Eren lost for words. Even Mikasa looks surprised,  and despite herself, seems to have gone to punch the air and then caught herself. She looks over at Armin, blushing a little, and then hurriedly adjusts her scarf  
“At Imola. It seems you’ve caught the eye of rather a lot of people.”  
“Including, it would seem, Mr Ackerman.”


	2. Imola-Prelude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armin doesn't like flying, Eren is a total fanboy, and general Sondaggio shenanagains.  
> Implied Mike/Levi, very mild Levi/Eren (ish.)

The small jet touches down at Bologna, and Armin breathes a sigh of relief, relaxes a little in his seat. Beside him, Eren is staring out of the window, Walkman slung around his neck, whilst Mikasa, on the other side of him, finishes reading her large book on market communications and closes it, reaching up to pull Armin’s bag out of the overhead, handing it down to him, before fetching hers and Eren’s. Hanji, across from them, is working at a small table that seems to be purpose built in this aircraft for her, examining a few large technical drawings, making notes and small schematic changes that she overlays on tracing paper. She’s barely spoken for the entire two hour flight, other than to briefly smile what Armin assumes to be an attempt at a reassuring smile, and tell him that this type of aircraft has never been in any sort of aviation incident. She gets to her feet now, folds the papers delicately into a folder and adjusts her goggles.  
He’s honestly glad to be back on solid ground; flying has never been a thing he enjoys at the best of times, and even short-haul flights were something he tried to avoid, to the extent he often rode with the rest of the pit crew in the lorry with European races.  
Still, it’s something he knows he has to deal with; it’s an irrational fear, probability indicate that-  
Eren taps him on the shoulder and he realises that he’s been staring into space for a good thirty seconds, Mikasa and Hanji already having reached the front of the plane. He stammers an apology and Eren just grins.  
“Don’t worry about it. I’m glad my friend is here to support me.”  
Armin nods, shoulders his bag and follows Mikasa down the stairs and onto the tarmac. He checks his watch: 8:30 PM. Hanji had said that Eren will be racing tomorrow, and that today was essentially a casual “meeting the team” sort of thing, but something akin to a knot forms in his stomach. In twelve, maybe fifteen hours, Eren was either going to make a childhood dream come true, or fail in front of one of his heroes.  
Bologna Airport is essentially a blur; they’re waved through most sections, the bag check is mercifully short and largely uneventful aside from someone getting rather over-excited about meeting a member of _Sondaggio Squadra_ (and a pretty woman at that), and they’re soon travelling in a car so “damn cool” that even Eren whistles at it. Now it’s Eren’s turn to bury himself in his headphones, sitting in the front whilst Armin sits, staring out of the window, Hanji occasionally pointing out landmarks, good places to eat, points of local historical interest. Armin’s almost surprised she gets as animated talking about Roman aquafers and architecture as she does about the shock-absorbers on a parked Lamborghini, and even more surprised that she’s carrying on this conversation as though they’ve been friends for weeks rather than hours.  
 MIkasa goes back to her book, but Armin swears, reflected in the glass against an increasingly darkening Italian sky, she sees her briefly smile.

 

-

  
  
Levi is curled into a chair in his usual spot in Garage 3 when Erwin finds him. At thirty five, (although his looks make him look closer to late twenties), the half-Italian, half-American Smith is a huge man, but a complete gentleman. At least Levi has always thought so in the five and a half years he’s known him, and in the two and a half years since his father retired, and his son became CEO of _Sondaggio Squadra_ , (his father retaining control of the adjoining, senior half of the company, the luxury car brand, Sondaggio), Erwin has become almost the symbol of a fiercer, smarter and cooler team who, (unlike Titan Renn in many peoples’ eyes) still uphold sportsmanship.  
“Somehow I knew you would be here.”  
Before them, now carefully cordoned off, a few bunches of new flowers placed around the nosecone, a large photograph of Mike and an Italian flag to its rear, the car lies. A few yards away, Mike’s helmets from previous races are carefully arranged.  
Every race represented in some way.  
Except Germany.  
A few weeks ago, Erwin told him Italian and German investigators still had it, but Levi saw through that lie. It was somewhere, probably deep in the bowels of Sondaggio Squadra’s HQ, kept locked away so that it wouldn’t bring back memories of that day.  
_So I won’t have to see it._  
  
“You alright?”  
A nod. Levi gets to his feet, carefully picks up the flowers he bought in a small town just outside Maranello _,_ ducks under the blue rope barrier and carefully places the small bouquet of blue flowers against the twisted mess that was once the front left axle. He straightens up, gives the photograph a short salute, and then crosses back under the rope.  
“I’m fine, Erwin.”  
The tall man nods.  
“I know you miss him, Levi. I think we all miss him.”  
Levi curls back into a chair, stares across the garage.  
“This season we have to win.”  
“I know. You said. For Mi-”  
“No. Not just for Mike.”  
Erwin finds a stool in an anteroom, pulls it over with a screech of metal that puts Levi’s nerves on edge. He catches the smaller man’s expression, apologises, looks as if he’s done something wrong.  
“Levi, I-”  
“It’s fine.”  
For a few seconds the head of _Sondaggio Squadra_ and its current sole driver stare at the remnants behind them. Levi realises, aside from footage via camera, and subsequent track walks alongside suited investigators and members of the FIA in the days after, Erwin never saw the crash, never saw the fire, never saw-  
“How was your journey from England?”  
Erwin seems to have realised that this is still a very sensitive topic, and moved to something more mundane, and Levi is inwardly thankful that they have something else to talk about  
“Reasonably uneventful. Some utter brat in a Mitsubishi overtook me outside Niemes doing well over the speed-limit; stupid idiots take one look at a sports car and try to race you. Traffic wasn’t bad”  
Erwin nods.  
“Dad wanted to know how it handled. You know what he’s like with these projects; he wants literally everything perfect. Look, handling, interior, exterior.”  
“Hrmm…handling? It’s pretty damned good flat out. Cornering ok, but little sticky on wet; should be fixed easily enough. Steering’s fine, response is beautiful…”  
He leans back a little, considering.  
“Inside is…a little cluttered. I’m not sure that you need so many dials…perhaps just speedo, steering column needs to be more central, less clutter generally. Whilst it’s a luxury car, the kind of person driving it…is not going to want a stereo or aircon.”  
Erwin nods, and Levi gets to his feet, stretching, idly picking up his leather jacket from the back of the chair.  
“I want to go see how the new car looks.”  
Another nod, and Erwin himself gets up, pockets the notepad.  
“Alright. Hanji said you’d be impressed.”  
  
He is.  
Garage 1 is nearly the size of an aircraft hanger, a long, squat building in the very centre of   _Sondaggio_ ’s sprawling complex. In the centre, surrounded by teams of workmen, sit eight chassis in blinding white and dark blue, two already fully constructed, a third mostly complete with wheels stacked nearby. The small crowd parts as Erwin strides over, shakes a few hands, Levi following close behind, occasionally stopping to talk to one of the engineering staff about gear ratios, locking nuts, tire pressure, safety measures for each car, strength and stability of materials and structures of the body.  
Whilst Erwin talks to Hanji’s no 2, a short, bespectacled girl called Petra who’s almost as mechanically gifted as her boss, Levi crouches in front of the completed machines, then walks slowly, almost painstakingly around them, stopping occasionally to examine sections, nodding occasionally to himself. He straightens up, turns to Erwin.  
“Sturdier carbon fibre, tougher but more flexible material, reworked suspension, slight front wing and spoiler tweak in design, to spread out downforce, about half an inch in all streamlining...”  
“Plus redesigned more fuel efficient engine, moved and reinforced fuel tank, toughened fuel lines, improved responsivity in steering. But you’ve got the major parts down. As expected of your attention to detail.”  
“How are the test drivers finding it?”  
“Powerful as hell. Don’t know what Hanji did with the engine, but Dad’s trying to get her to cough up the information so he can use it after this season.”  
Levi chuckles-like Hanji was going to do that…  
“Any issues?”  
“One…minor overheating issue, one mechanical issue with gearbox. Hanji’s working on both so, don’t worry. You don’t need to worry about every tiny little issue yourself. Worry about driving the thing, we’ll worry about keeping it in one piece.”  
He takes Levi aside and half whispers  
“I know…you blame yourself for the accident. Don’t. Yeesh, I’ve got my mother telling me you’re suffering from PTSD or survivor’s guilt or whatever syndrome she’s read about in the magazines latest.”  
“I’m not blaming myself. I just don’t want it to ever happen again to anyone.”  
  
A Sondaggio employee hurries over with a handwritten note, and Erwin quickly reads it, scribbles something down and the employee is gone.  
“Hanji and the trio from Maria have touched down in Bologna. Mr Jinn’s en-route from his base of operations in Berlin, rang from a café outside Milan about half six. Should be here by nine PM.”  
A nod.  
He’d read up on both of them in the intervening week. Jinn was a big, friendly looking guy with dyed blonde hair and a perpetual smile above his goatee-half Finnish, he’d largely been brought up by his father, himself a former WRC champion, first raced in go-carts before switching to high performance cars. Two WRC championships under his belt, but a notable slip in form in the last two years, particularly after Skies had entirely disintegrated and its owner arrested . A nice guy, married, with a child. Nice, unfortunately, increasingly looked like it wouldn’t cut it.  
And then there was Jaeger. Surly looking, although several press photographs had him half-smiling or grinning, with a messy shock of dark-brown hair, piercing green eyes and the sort of look on his face that said “Here I am. I have arrived”. Arrogant it was, but sometimes arrogance is backed up by utter self-assuredness. Certainly, his performance indicated that he was in the ascendancy-the second half of his second season, with one notable exception, was win after win after win. Had he not crashed out so badly in Belgium, he would happily have walked the Championship. But, looking through the accidents he’d had-were it not for split second-mistakes, or sudden lapses in concentration,  this kid could quite happily contend every single race. Sure, he was hot-headed-at Spa, he’d chewed out a rival driver for shunting into him after a tightly contested corner, but who wouldn’t?  
The long and the short of it was, this kid had fire, and a record to prove it; whilst he wasn’t going to rule out Jinn, Jaeger increasingly looked like he could and would be _Sondaggio’s_ No.2 driver. He turned to Erwin.  
“Seeing that we’re expecting guests, I’m going to excuse myself and get ready. Let me know when they’re here, Ok?”  
A curt nod from Erwin.”  
“Alright. See you later Levi.”  


-

  
  
He runs a hand through his wet hair and leans over the side of the bath, sighing softly. Somewhere in the room, a cassette of David Bowie’s _Heroes_ is playing, indistinctly enough that he can’t make out every single note, but loud enough he can roughly work out what track he’s listening to.  
He misses Mike.  
Not just in the sense that he missed a person he had spent five years either competing against or sharing the same colour, the same banner, with the hopes and dreams of twenty tracks spread over two sets of shoulders.  
Mike had been more than a friend, less than a lover, some difficult to verbalise middle ground between respect and full out adoration.  
He realises, chin resting on the cool edge of the bath, that he and Mike never really talked about much together. Sure, they’d patted each other on the back when things hadn’t gone as expected, or applauded each-other’s skill as they passed a bottle back and forth after a podium for either, or more often, both of them, but they’d never really talked anything that wasn’t shop.  
He knew Mike was Italian, knew Mike’s parents were relatively rich and that their son had shown an aptitude for going fast at a young age, knew he had a younger sister. That, however, was all from meeting those people afterwards.  
Aside from this, and knowing Mike’s childhood hero was Regazzoni (a middle-ranking but passionate Italian driver from the mid seventies), he knew very little about the man he had called his friends. Even the music at his funeral had given little away-either classical or religious music, one Bob Dylan song. Mike remained, essentially, a closed book to him, and Levi closed to Mike.  
  
They’d never really even talked about their feelings, if their feeling were anything other than an amplification via alcohol of a mutual respect for each other. No-one had really commented on Mike’s lack of wife or child; after all, he was a millionaire playboy with a garage of fast cars and attractive women almost falling off his arms, and only in his late twenties.   
Neither had it really ever gone much further than a kiss that Mike later put down to a “spur of the moment thing”. Levi, for his part, had never really thought it should or would go any further, which turned out, for good or ill, to be correct. In short, perhaps, Mike was closest to the sort of thing that Homer had written about in Ancient Greece-a duo of heroes bound by friendship to a task.  
  
At that moment, Bowie launches into the final verse of “Heroes”, and Levi closes his eyes, lets the music wash over him, the last rays of the Italian sunset filtering through the window.  
_Oh, we can beat them, forever and ever  
_ Either way, Jaeger or Jinn alongside him, it was time for _Sondaggio_ to put last year behind them, to bounce back, as Levi had done so well after the German Grand Prix, to get revenge, of a sort, against Titan Renn.  
_We can be heroes, just for one day_  
A soft knock on the door  
“Mr Ackerman? Mr Jinn and Mr Jaeger, plus accompanying parties are here.”  
He dries himself, carefully selects a black shirt and jeans, pulls the dark leather jacket over his shoulder and wanders into the corridor, follows Erwin’s PA (a polite, extremely meticulous woman called Rico), down the stairs to the main entrance hall. It was Erwin’s idea to meet them here, rather than at Imola, to get a sense of what they were like as people, how they acted before putting them in a car and seeing what they were like. A old habit of his father’s.  
  
He settles himself into one of the expensive looking chairs, picks up a magazine at random, tidies the rest of the pile, and waits. A few yards away, Erwin smiles softly, sipping from a glass of cognac.  
Jinn is first to arrive, and even Levi is surprised at just how tall he is; never mind driving cars, Jinn looks like he could lift them. He smiles softly, politely introduces himself to Erwin, enquires about where his car is to be parked, shares a small joke about the terrible drivers in Switzerland, and then is lead away to the small set of rooms prepared for him. He doesn’t even look over at Levi.  
“So…initial thoughts?”  
“Unobservant for one”  
Erwin chuckles.  
“Charming enough. Did Hanji actually make accommodations for his height?”  
“Yes.”  
“Fair enough. He’s a nice guy.”

  
A few minutes pass, and Levi finds himself another magazine, having finally given up caring about Italian celebrities plugging their latest films.  
Surprisingly, it’s not Jaeger that appears first, but a short, blonde haired young man who looks around every so often, gazing up in what is obviously awe at the collection of trophies, parts and photographs that cover both walls of the lobby.  
Levi shoots Erwin a look, and he gets to his feet, walking over.  
“Ah, Mr Arlet?”  
Mr Arlet looks like he’s just been noticed by some large, dangerous looking predator and stops stock-still in front of a set of trophies that, to Levi’s recollection are some two or three years old.  
Behind him, a black haired girl wearing a fashionable enough-looking dress, Hanji, and finally Eren, who seems to follow Armin in looking around in awe.  
“Wow…this is…wow.”  
He wanders over, as Hanji and Erwin talk, Armin visibly slowly relaxing beside the goggled engineer, stopping in front of a large display case that doubles as the back of the reception booth.  
“Let’s see…Brazil…1, 2, Pacific, 1, 3, San Marino, 2, 1…”  
He carries on listing the trophies with a reverence that Levi’s oddly surprised to hear until he reaches:  
“Germany…2…oh.”  
He stops, and steps away from the cabinet, and is about to walk back to Erwin when he spots Levi.  
“Hey. Uh.  Sorry. Fanboy.”  
He flashes that grin again, and then stops dead still, suddenly begins to realise exactly who he is talking to.  
“A-are you…”  
Levi closes the magazine, places it carefully back onto the pile, shoots back his own, less gormless grin  
“Am I…?  
“You’re…Levi Ackerman, right? Two time FIA World Champion, two time F3000 Champion, part of the victorious Le Mans team of 1993?”  
“Might be.”  
It’s somehow  quite…edifying to see Eren Jaeger completely lost for words, and he swears he hears an audible sigh of relief as Erwin wanders back over, Hanji, Artlet and the black haired girl in toe.  
“Ah, Mikasa, Armin. I assume Mr Ackerman needs no introduction?”  
Both shake their heads,  
“Levi, this is Mr Armin Arlet, Mr Jaeger’s chief engineer, Ms Mikasa Jaeger, Mr Jaeger’s sister and PR/Team Head, etc.”  
She smiles.  
“I’m sorry if my brother is…excitable. It’s a childhood dream of his to meet you. And race for _Sondaggio_.”  
Levi gets to his feet.  
“Well, here I am. It’s nice to meet you, Mr and Ms Jaeger, Mr Arlet.”  
He turns to wander into the small conference room that’s been hastily co-opted for dinner, gives Eren another smile that’s he happy the kid returns.  
“And, tomorrow, we’ll see whether he’s up to the challenge of making the other one a reality.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Tech babble, glossary to come.

**Author's Note:**

> Ahem. Hi.
> 
> This is probably the first AU fic I've ever written, so...Hope you enjoy it, I guess? 
> 
> (I'll eventually work out a glossary for this since there's way too many technical terms/F1 jargon to explain in-text.)


End file.
